A New Drug
by The-Ones-Who-Ran
Summary: "I feel utterly ridiculous." "You look utterly ridiculous." / John makes the mistake of dragging his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, to a school dance. Unsurprisingly, dancing is most definitely not on Sherlock's short list of things he finds enjoyable (or at least not completely insufferable). John tries his hardest to remedy this. Teen!lock AU. Johnlock. One-shot.


"Loosen up a bit, would you?"

This request was met with a snort, followed by low, bored sounding retort "And how would you suggest I go about _loosening up_?"

"Uh, I don't know… move or something? You're as stiff as a board. Loosen your muscles a bit, get comfortable!"

"I _am _comfortable, John!" came the answering whine "Much more so than if I were flailing about as uncoordinated as everyone else."

"Okay, now you're just being difficult, Sherlock!" the other voice, John's, replied in a surprisingly controlled tone "Why don't you have a bit of _fun_ for once in your life?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I am perfectly capable of having _fun_, as you so simply put it," Sherlock flung back, his tone slightly biting "Though, I don't have such a useless activity such as _dancing_ on my list of enjoyable pastimes." John shook his head, dispelling his brain's hopeful suggestion on what his friend might consider _fun_. It was mildly disturbing, to say the least. He tried, once more, to get a word in.

"C'mon, everyone's doing it, so can you just this once –" Sherlock cut him off.

"May I also point out that a large percentage of what you consider 'everyone' is either drunk or high? I wouldn't consider them good examples of what's wise and acceptable." John opened his mouth to reply, but shut it promptly as the words sunk in, feeling them sting dully.

Well, he had a point, John admitted reluctantly, silently in his own head. He'd never say it aloud to his friend, not wanting to further inflate his already massive ego. He could already see his smug smirk tugging the corners of his mouth upwards, sensing an easy victory. It hadn't been fair, though, he shouldn't be allowed to play the drug card.

The large gymnasium Sherlock had spent so many hours of torturous physical education classes had been transformed into a rather disappointing ballroom. Cheap streamers, balloons, and various other decorations had been taped sloppily to the walls, evidently without much planning. It looked marginally less pathetic in the dim lighting – the darkness pierced only briefly by various erratically flashing lights of several different colours – though it was still a sad excuse for a school dance.

The room was split into two obvious groups.

The first was the group of barely-dressed teenagers that giggled drunkenly as they pressed their bodies together, sweating and writhing against one another in a sea of flesh. Their bodies could hardly be called clothed, the majority of the females wearing barely a scrap of anything, and what they did have on was torn in the name of fashion. These were the students Sherlock had been referring to, the ones with smuggled alcohol hazing their brains and clouding their judgement.

The second group was caught in that awkward state between dancing and standing still. They didn't come close to moving with the enthusiasm of the first group, only swaying slightly where they stood, some even shuffling their feet. They hung around in small groups, trying to talk over the pounding music emanating ubiquitously from various speakers around the gym. They moved their bodies almost unconsciously, as if the obnoxiously loud drum beat was somehow guiding their movements.

John imitated those same dance (but not quite dancing) moves from where he and Sherlock stood, in an otherwise unoccupied corner of the room. John was a whole head shorter than his friend, sporting his favourite, ratty jumper over a pair of jeans. The shorter boy swung almost absently to the beat, continuing to badger his taller, dark-haired friend to join the crowd of students in the middle, jumping and hopping about, laughing. Sherlock scowled, looking much out-of-place standing there with his lanky limbs tucked closely to his sides in defiance.

"Ugh," John sighed, exasperated and on the brink of admitting defeat "Please don't tell me your _self-conscious_, or something. It's a well-known fact that everyone looks stupid doing it. You'll be no different and, in all honesty, nobody could care less." The taller boy made a small noise that sounded like agreement for the first time that night.

"I'm aware it looks foolish, as one would expect flailing and twitching about would be," he mused, his low voice almost lost in the loud blaring of speakers "I have no desire to participate in something if nobody will care either way anyway, as you said yourself." John groaned.

"I meant nobody will care if you're shit at it," he clarified "It'll get you to loosen up a bit, have some fun, and maybe get to know some people you wouldn't otherwise." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, which disappeared under his curly fringe of hair.

"If your definition of 'getting to know' someone includes rubbing myself all over someone's sweaty body and sharing the cheap bottle of booze they have stuffed down their bra, that I'd rather not get acquainted with anyone tonight, thanks." This statement actually got a laugh out of the short blond, and Sherlock knew he'd won. His lips twitched at the sound of his friend's amusement, mirroring his smile.

"Alright, fair point," chuckled John in defeat, though he glared at his friend seriously before adding, "At least try to _look_ like you want to be here, and stop standing like you've got a stick up your ass." Sherlock's face twisted into a strange expression halfway between a grin and a frown, and his eyes – their bright, grey-blue irises that seemed to glow in the darkened room – narrowed, in a parody of actual offense.

His shorter friend waved a hand toward the mass of barely-covered bodies after a moment. "Why don't you go dance with Irene?" The taller boy sent John his very best _are you serious?_ look at that suggestion.

"And why would I do that? I thought we'd already established that I –"

"Yeah, I know. You don't dance," John interrupted with a roll of his eyes "You've probably got all the grace of a newborn giraffe." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John continued anyway "But seriously, mate, she's been staring at you for the last _ten minutes_. Aren't you going to _do_ something?" It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes (much more dramatically than John had), forgetting to defend his dance moves for a moment.

True, the young girl had been eying him rather uncomfortably for the majority of the evening. She beckoned him over with her large eyes (clear from the haze of any addictive substance, yet she moved with the carefree movements of one high as a kite), where she twirled in the mass of rocking bodies. Her black clothes, mostly undistinguishable in the darkness from Sherlock's corner of the room, clung tightly to her figure (somehow more revealing than those wearing next to nothing), her dark, wavy hair fanning out around her as she danced. She shot him a suggestive glare that, had it been directed upon any other male in the room (single or not), it would have quickly led to the two of them seeking refuge in a bathroom stall somewhere, their clothes sliding promptly to the floor…

"Not really my area," Sherlock muttered stiffly, not looking the shorter boy in the eye "Why don't _you_ approach her? I don't think she'd be too disappointed by the substitution." Sherlock felt this to be an understatement – Irene Adler would sleep with anyone if she got something in return, whether it be money or favour. Had Sherlock any interest in that sort of thing, he'd have probably done all her chemistry homework. John frowned at his friend's suggestion.

"I've got a girlfriend," he reminded him, nodding his head roughly towards the general area where a brown-haired teen was talking and giggling with a few of her friends. "And what do you mean, not your area?" The taller boy ignored the latter half of his friend's sentence, abruptly pointing to where John's girlfriend was swaying to the music on the other side of the gym.

"I would stop wasting your breath reminding _me_, and go provide Stamford with a refresher, don't you think?"

Sure enough, John followed his friend's long, pale finger to where he spied Mike, observing the larger boy wobble (it was really the only word to describe his horrid dancing) awfully close to the young girl. The blond only rolled his eyes in response, brushing it off.

"He's just a bit tipsy, and Mary's hardly his type," he replied, sounded rather unworried, much to Sherlock's confusion (just when he thought he understood the man…) "Besides, people can get up to some crazy stuff at these things. It usually doesn't mean anything, forgiven and forgotten come tomorrow." Sherlock's only answer was a rather puzzled expression, but he didn't comment. They stand (well, John still shuffled awkwardly beside him) without speaking for a long moment before shorter boy spoke up.

"So, what did you mean, not your area?" he inquired, trying to appear disinterested, casual. Sherlock merely shrugged in response.

"It could referring to any number of things," was his only explanation, before John shot him a glare, to which he started to clarify "Dancing, for one, or perhaps my inexperience with social interactions, or with relationships, especially those of a more… _intimate _nature." John swallowed uncomfortably.

"Oh," was all he could manage, and the pair fell into another not-quite-pleasant break in their conversation. Seconds ticked by, though John was surprised to see that his friend didn't appear bored like he'd been expecting. The taller boy's eyes darted around the room, and John could see the gears turning behind them as he sucked all the information in front of him up in that curious way of his. His bright gaze flashed with obvious intelligence as he catalogued every detail, every little fact. He wondered what poor sod had just unknowingly revealed his entire life story to the young genius beside him. John played with his fingers to fight the boredom (it was odd, being the bored one, for once), not sure what to do next.

Struck with sudden inspiration, John's hands darted out and snagged Sherlock's wrists. They were thin, and it was impossibly easy to grip them in his fingers, his thumb and index finger touching as they circled them. Even in the dark, the shorter boy could see the difference between his tanned, calloused hands and his best friend's eerily pale arms. Sherlock was about to protest at the sudden contact, tugging at the hold on his wrists half-heartedly, but John quickly silenced him.

"C'mon, Sherlock, just indulge my odd requests for moment, okay?" he almost pleaded, attempting to swing the taller boy's arms to the beat. It was embarrassing, forcefully moving his friend's arms, but totally worth the look on the genius' face. "It'd be nice to have the chance to experience something that we _normal _people consider fun. If you'd like, after, you can… you know, _delete _it, or whatever it is you do." Sherlock sulked, but didn't fight John's hold on his wrists. He didn't actively participle either, the rest of his body staying completely still, leaving his long arms to swing from side to side in a ridiculous fashion. Sherlock frowned.

"I'm no expert, John," Sherlock said, making John laugh (he should get that in writing someday) "But this doesn't really seem 'normal'. If anything, I look even worse than I had before. Are you sure I'm not required to be intoxicated to participate?" John rolled his eyes at the thinly concealed smart-arse tone (though fighting a wince at his casual, joking suggestion), putting more enthusiasm into his movements as he continued to manipulate his friend's arms like an inexperienced puppeteer.

"If you put in some _effort_, maybe!" he complained, Sherlock's arms wiggling, boneless as he pumped his own. "I can't be doing all the work for you!" The dark-haired boy scowled, but still refused to budge.

Realising he was getting absolutely nowhere, John let his hands migrate upwards, coming to a rest on his friend's upper arms. He felt the silky fabric of Sherlock's favourite shirt under his fingers, the deep purple colour appearing almost black in the lighting. With his hands in this position, John found himself able to move Sherlock's shoulders, as well as his chest. He received another frown, but the taller boy didn't struggle against the blond's grip.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked in a bored tone, his thin frame now moving to John's will, dark curls bouncing around his angular face, his movements jerking awkwardly to the beat. He _did_ actually resemble a giraffe – abnormally skinny and much too tall – with his legs apparently unable to coordinate, moving in odd, stiff movements. The dark-haired boy was clearly uncomfortable, but with the dancing rather than his friend's close proximity. John was one of the few people whom he tolerated, and his hands on his arms were (admittedly) much more preferable than a certain someone he could still see ogling him out of the corner of his eye. Irene's gaze had gone from seductive to perplexed as she stared openly at the two of them in the corner, moving in an ungraceful tandem. "I feel utterly ridiculous."

"You _look_ utterly ridiculous," John added affectionately with an easy laugh, as one of Sherlock's jerking knee movements accidentally struck him in the leg, the steady beat of the music controlling his movements. He repeated his advice from earlier "Just _loosen up_!"

So he did.

The socially awkward teen had to admit that there _was_ a certain fun to it. His mind was busy, but filled with every tiny movement of the bodies around him. His limbs seemed to move of their own accord, though Sherlock felt simultaneously hyperaware of every motion, every step. He was aware he still looked absurd, but he ceased worrying about it. He was dancing on his own now, yet John's arms remained loosely on his own. The touch was not undesirable, he noted with faint surprise. He found he needed a guiding hand.

He was actually (quite possibly) starting to enjoy himself (maybe, just maybe), and he heard John chuckle loudly (much like those giggly girls across the room), coming to the conclusion he must be, too. Sherlock's blood, brain, and skin sang with an entirely new sensation, much different from the wild, frenzied kiss of various drugs he had come to be all-too-familiar with in years past. It was intoxicating, and the hazy effect on his brain made him feel more fluid, akin to the rush he felt when he found himself sprinting through the streets of London. He allowed his lips to turn up in a rare smile.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock mulled over possible names for his new drug. Delirium? Bliss? Fearlessness? Carefree? Nothing seemed to accurately describe the feeling.

_Happiness_, he finally decided with a drunk smile. He wondered if everyone else in the gymnasium (he had almost forgotten they were there, that they weren't, in fact, in their own little world) was experiencing the same feeling. Sherlock wondered why they even bothered with the bootleg coke and vodka – wasn't this enough on its own?

The two of them didn't even register the fact that the music had slowed down, relaxing their pace automatically, without a conscious thought. It was only when John felt Sherlock quickened breath ghost over his hairline did he notice how close they were standing, how his own hands were still grasping his friend's arms firmly. Not that Sherlock seemed to mind. In fact, the dark-haired boy appeared oddly relaxed, more than John had ever seen him, even more so than the few times he'd caught the genius surrendering to sleep. He wondered if the taller boy would melt into a puddle on the floor. It honestly wouldn't surprise him.

It didn't even faze him when found himself even closer to his friend, his face almost pressed against the purple fabric of Sherlock's shirt. Had it always been so snug on him? How could he not have noticed before how tightly the silk had been pulled over the taller boy's narrow chest? Some tiny part in the back of his mind worried that the buttons might pop at any moment, taking out one of his eyes in the process.

John didn't react as he felt Sherlock's arms twist in his grasp, so that his friend's long, spidery fingers held the shorter boy's arms in a similar fashion. They were still swaying slightly, not with the same enthusiasm as before, their pace slowing to match the soft, almost sluggish melody that filled the room now.

Were they dancing still? John didn't know anymore. They mostly just held each other, their feet shuffling against the gym floor. Only the music around them and thoses tiny movement from side to side marked it as dancing, but John couldn't think of a better word.

He was only vaguely aware of the eyes that flicked towards their little corner of the party, brief glances from across the room where the others had mostly broken off into pairs. Those left partner-less had left, for the most part, some remnants still trickling out the double doors. John was suddenly made aware of how this must look, especially in context, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He could feel a comforting warmth radiating from his friend's body (strange, for he had always associated the young genius with ice-cold glares, biting comments, and sharp angles), and fought back the contented sigh that bubbled in the back of his throat.

John nearly jumped, pulled from his thoughts, as he felt a soft pressure on his head. Sherlock rested his chin (at least, John thought/hoped it was his chin) atop the shorter boy's head of sandy blond hair, bringing the pair of them even closer. He felt an uncomfortable hot feeling spread across his skin, warming his cheeks. His body tensed in panic.

"I have a girlfriend." John blurted, his mouth voice acting of his own accord. He didn't see why this information was relevant. They were just _mates_, having some _fun_, and John had _Mary_…

He was also pretty sure he was straight. He didn't want to think about the fact that this bit information had come to him last. Shouldn't it have been the very first thing in _what's wrong with this picture?_ He wasn't gay. He should _not _be standing so closely, so _intimately_, with his friend, his _male_ friend. He was also worried how he'd mentally said 'pretty sure' when assessing his sexuality. He _really_ didn't need this right now.

"Again, I'm not entirely I'm the one who needs reminding," Sherlock replied, John feeling the words rumble in his friend's chest, feeling his breath in his short hair. The taller boy angled his head to the side, then, gesturing to the other side of the gym. John turned his gaze, ignoring the gawking faces of about half of the student body, to where he had seen Mary last.

Oh, well then. That's… well, a bit _not good_.

John blinked several times in shock as he gets an eyeful of Mike snogging the life out of Mary, holding her flush against him. She didn't seem to be protesting too much, if her fingers running through the hair on the back of Stamford's head were anything to go on. John felt a little numb, to put it simply. He wasn't sure what to think.

"What did you say earlier?" Sherlock thought aloud, and John could hardy miss the note of derision in his tone. Sherlock most certainly remembered what he'd said earlier, and the genius would probably be able to write a detailed transcript if asked. The taller boy fought back a smirk. "That people engage in 'some crazy stuff'? That it's all 'forgiven and forgotten' come morning? Or – my personal favourite – 'Mary's hardly his type'?" Sherlock dropped his posh school-boy accent where John knows the genius would've normally included air quotations with his long fingers, if they hadn't been… otherwise occupied. Sherlock fiddled almost absently with the hem of John's rolled-up sleeves, being impossibly distracting. _I'm not gay_, his brain sang defiantly as he realised exactly _how _distracting.

John risked another look back at Mary (he's not sure if he can even mentally refer to her as his girlfriend anymore), only to see the two of them still going at it. _Forgive and Forget_. He wasn't completely sure he could, much less if Mary would do the same (mostly in the 'forgetting' part, he really wasn't sure what she'd have to forgive). John was reduced to mumbling incoherently for a moment "Uh… oh." He turned back to Sherlock, keeping his friend at arms' length to properly gauge his expression.

John immediately sucked in a breath.

He was doing _that _face.

He wondered briefly if he'd copied Irene's exact expression on purpose, or if he was even aware of the look that glinted at the back of his grey-blue eyes, which appeared both clearer and impossibly stormy. He wondered if he had consciously formed that little smile on his lips that, coming from anyone else, would probably be followed by the shared use of a dirty bathroom stall. John erected a hasty mental wall, not letting the images sit in his mind for any period of time. The shorter boy stumbled over the words he wanted to utter. "Uh…"

Sherlock full-out _grinned_. It was hard not to, with this strange _happiness_ rushing, warm and pleasant, through his veins. It was better than cocaine. John – almost flush against him, warm and soft – was better than the cold prick of a needle any day. He wondered why holding John had taken so long to occur to him. He hadn't known he'd wanted it until now, as he found himself suddenly breathing the same air, letting it work as a mind-numbing inhalant as he welcomed it into his lungs, into his mind. John, truly the best drug of them all.

He mourned the loss of contact when John leaned back to peer up at him, though they still held onto each other's arms. John still struggled to form a complete thought, though – honestly – Sherlock had long gone past the hope of thinking with any sort of clarity.

It was terrifying.

It was _wonderful_.

Testing his new boundaries, Sherlock slid his hands up the shorter boy's arms until they rested on his shoulders. At the same time, John's grip had shifted to the taller boy's waist, loosely placed above his belt. Neither said a word, waiting for the other to speak first.

Taking his silence for approval, Sherlock's hands moved once more, the pads of his long fingers pressing lightly to the sides of John's neck. The shorter boy fought back a shiver, though he wasn't cold (He felt quite hot, actually. Had someone turned off the ventilation?). Sherlock's spine tingled with the same sensation as he felt John's steady hands on his back, plucking nervously at the fabric of the taller boy's shirt (still _extremely_ tight, though he found he didn't mind much). Again they paused, waiting for the other to say something. Neither did.

Sherlock's pale hands were suddenly placed under John's jaw, tilting his head upwards the tiniest fraction. John's own arms had slid under Sherlock's, reaching up his back, his fingers clutching at the taller boy's thin shoulders from behind. The shorter boy bit back the automatic response of _I have a girlfriend_, because she'd been the one to break it, not even a minute ago. The two of them stared into each other's eyes, their gazes asking undeveloped bits of questions. _Are you…? Is this…? Are we…?_

Sherlock bent his head, resting his forehead against John's, his dark curls irritating the shorter boy's eyes, though he didn't complain. A long moment of silence, broken by a low affirmation "Yes."

John didn't need to ask what he meant.

The kiss was unexpectedly soft. John, all sturdy and muscular, meeting Sherlock, all sharp and angular, should not have resulted in such a feather-light touch as their mouths slid together. Everywhere their skin brushed, even only lightly, tingled with the sensation Sherlock had named earlier. _Happiness_. He searched in vain for another word to more accurately describe the feeling, but it mind was unhelpfully blank, and the unnatural silence in his own head didn't bother him in the least.

Worry prodded at the back of Sherlock's brain after a moment (or had hours gone by? He wouldn't have known), as Sherlock wondered what he should do next. _Not really my area_. His earlier statement to John was still true, and he was lost as to how he should proceed. What next? Should he stop? Should they talk? Should they maybe dance some more? He really didn't want to stop, but Sherlock hadn't a clue.

He started to inch backward, though he greatly opposed the separation from John, despite never having touched him much before, other than to pull his shorter friend through the city street after whatever had held his attention at the time. He hadn't barely moved a centimetre before he felt John rapidly untangle his arms from his own, only to snake them around his neck, fingers tugging at the back of his scalp, twisting in his hair.

Their lips were forced back together, Sherlock's opening under John's as other boy's eagerness taking him by surprise. The shorter of the two took full advantage, deepening the kiss as he invaded Sherlock's mouth in a swirl of tongues and teeth and _oh_! An unfamiliar noise formed in the back of the genius' throat, his mind reduced to expressing itself with nothing but a contented moan.

When Sherlock felt as if he might collapse from lack of oxygen (or from the weakness in his knees he associated with the feeling of _happiness_), he finally broke the kiss, though their foreheads remained pressed together, their noses touching. They smiled in unison, an unconscious decision. They stood together, listening to the sound of their breathing and their racing hearts as they started to slow once more.

Sherlock swallowed. "So…" he started, uncharacteristically hesitant, not quite sure how to verbalize the thoughts that flew around his brain, which seemed to have shorted out, the right words as elusive as a swarm of insects, buzzing unintelligible nonsense in his ear before darting away. The after-effects of his new drug were pleasant, and he didn't seem to be crashing from his high quite yet. "Is this one of those crazy happenings one forgives and forgets?" His question was genuine, the hope in his voice apparent as he searched for the answer. John shook his head, a wild grin still plastered on his face.

"God, no," he breathed, looking up at his friend with an unfamiliar spark in his eyes. Sherlock smiled to himself, in the knowledge that _he _was responsible for that glint, the one even Mary had failed to induce. "I swear, if you delete this like you did any dancing skills you may-or-may-not have possessed at some point, I'll –"

"I thought you liked my dancing?" Sherlock pouted, and John fought the still-foreign impulse to take that sulking bottom lip between both of his. Apparently, the young genius had been on the same train of thought, planting a chaste kiss on the shorter boy's mouth, smiling against it. "And I feel I have conclusive evidence to support that." John snorted, but didn't argue.

Slowly returning to the real world, the pair noticed belatedly that the music had sped up once more, the crowd having grown as all the single people flooded back in, having successfully evaded the awkwardness of a slow song. They stood absolutely still, letting their surroundings return to them in their own time.

After a few moments, they we back to shuffling side-to-side, though much closer than before, rubbing flush against one another. They smiled, laughed, and snuck a few well-placed kisses to anywhere their skin lay exposed, high on this new feeling of theirs.

"C'mon, let's go _loosen up_," John suggested, pulling Sherlock by the wrist towards the crowd of teenagers jumping up and down to the beat. Sherlock willingly obliged, disappearing into the crowd of drunken students, equally high off his own drug, its name finally coming to him.

He named it _Love_.


End file.
